


Lament

by hypocretin



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 09:30:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12628014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypocretin/pseuds/hypocretin





	Lament

                                                                                      He does not hear above the faucet that Duck has toed her way

                                                                             across the floor to join him ‘til she speaks his name aloud. So shy is

                                                                             her voice, Fakir reaches to close the tap before turning to her, and as 

                                                                             he does the sight of her hair loosed from its braid catches him by

                                                                             surprise. Her head lists to one side, and the way she does not meet

                                                                             his eye even when he says her name in turn causes him to worry.

     

                                                                                       She tugs and runs her fingers gently through her hair where it  


                                                                             falls against her collar and is quiet for a long moment, searching  


                                                                             privately through the distant, uncertain light that plays across her  


                                                                             gaze—then gestures with a slow movement along the line of her jaw.  


                                                                             “Would you…cut my hair for me?” she asks.

     

                                                                                       A cold knot tangles up in Fakir’s throat and he struggles keep

                                                                             his face from falling, the dishcloth at his hand twisting up with a 

                                                                             wrench. For a moment, he thinks to dissuade her—to say any 

                                                                             reassuring or deflecting thing, yet…there is an anxiousness and 

                                                                             melancholy in her face that gives him pause. His eye falls to her collar

                                                                             where that pendant no longer lies, unable to ignore the mark it has  


                                                                             left upon her. He wonders with an ache how long its absence has 

                                                                             weighed against her in this way, how long she’s struggled under  


                                                                             helplessness before this feeling of a life gone by.

     

                                                                                       So keenly aware of the depth of his ignorance, he struggles to

                                                                             think what would be kindest to say or do. A moment passes between

                                                                             them in silence as he thinks, the quiet measured by breaths and 

                                                                             heartbeats and the sound of canaries beyond the window only, for 

                                                                             they do not keep clocks upon the wall. Fakir sighs inwardly, as though

                                                                             to steady himself, and finds his decision.

     

                                                                                        _It is only hair_ , he thinks. _It will grow again_.

     

                                                                                       Setting the cloth by the sink, he reaches for the drawer where they

                                                                             keep a pair of scissors among their mess of papers and sundries and

                                                                             says, “Sure.” 

     

                                                                                       His answer causes Duck to perk and she meets his eye at last,

                                                                             a sort of pensive surprise caught her expression. “Really?” she says.

 

                                                                                       His head bows with a nod and Duck finds herself reading beyond 

                                                                             the summoned calm that he holds in his eye, and she smiles in a

                                                                             sheepish and thankful sort of way, then crosses the floor to meet him.

 

                                                                                       

                                                                                       

 


End file.
